Book XI

on to Troy. And he it was who came to meet the son Of Atreus. As the heroes now drew near Each other, Agamemnon missed his aim; His thrust was parried. Then Iphidamas Dealt him beneath the breastplate on the belt A vigorous blow, and urged the spear with all His strength of arm; yet through the plated belt It could not pierce, for there it met a plate Of silver, and its point was turned like lead. With lion strength, Atrides seized and drew The weapon toward him, plucked it from the hand That held it, and let fall his falchion’s edge Upon the Trojan’s neck and laid him dead. Unhappy youth! He slept an iron sleep⁠— Slain fighting for his country, far away From the young virgin bride yet scarcely his, For whom large marriage-gifts he made⁠—of beeves A hundred⁠—and had promised from the flocks That thronged his fields a thousand sheep and goats. Atrides Agamemnon spoiled the slain, And bore his glorious armor off among The Argive host. Antenor’s elder son, Illustrious Coön, saw, and bitter grief For his slain brother dimmed his eyes. He stood Aside, with his spear couched, while unaware The noble Agamemnon passed, and pierced The middle of the monarch’s arm below The elbow; through the flesh the shining point Passed to the other side. The king of men, Atrides, shuddered, yet refrained not then From combat; but with his wind-seasoned spear He rushed on Coön, who, to drag away His father’s son Iphidamas, had seized The body by the feet, and called his friends, The bravest, to his aid. Atrides thrust His brazen spear below the bossy shield, And slew him as he drew the corpse, and o’er The dead Iphidamas struck off his head. Thus were Antenor’s sons⁠—their doom fulfilled⁠— Sent by Atrides to the realm of death. And then he ranged among the enemy’s ranks With wielded lance and sword and ponderous stones, While yet the warm blood issued from his wound. But when the wound grew dry, and ceased to flow With blood, keen anguish seized his vigorous frame As when a woman feels the piercing pangs Of travail brought her by the Ilythian maids, Daughters of Juno, who preside at births, And walk the ministers of bitter pains⁠— Such anguish seized on Agamemnon’s frame; And, leaping to his chariot-seat,